


Build Fires To Stoke Them

by raquetgirl



Series: The Emotion [2]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, That thing where you enjoy giving blow jobs a little too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 07:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9062746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raquetgirl/pseuds/raquetgirl
Summary: Barry is grinning because even though he can’t get drunk he weirdly...loves the taste of tequila and he loves that she knows it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> AUish. Season 2ish. Together but not together. Switches between Iris & Barry POV.

It’s suddenly sticky-hot in Central City and Iris, who always waits until it’s unbearable to put the A/C unit in the window, is sweating through the heat wave with her hair swept up in a high ponytail and her clothes—well, at a minimum.

Not indecent, exactly. But the white sleeveless dress is a bit too short to wear outside.

But it’s late, and Iris isn’t going outside, so it doesn’t really matter. She’s in the home stretch on a story she’s been trying to break for two months, about a recent acquisition a Wayne Enterprises shell company had made in Central City. She’s feeling energized—this, it’s just hers; it isn’t about metahumans, or endangered lives, or STAR Laboratories, or the Flash.

And it’s nearing 3,000 explosive words as her fingers fly across the keyboard, pausing only when she needs to consult her notes, or flick back over the recordings on her phone. A few more and—there, it’s done, draft shared with her editor.

Iris tugs the earbuds from her ears and opens the music app on her computer before flopping back in her chair and smiling up at her ceiling. The story is great, she can just feel it. She can also _feel_ her hair curling at the roots in the humidity, and she tightens her ponytail and turns up the volume dial on the old — older than her, even — stereo receiver that her dad gave her when she moved out.

_Build fires to stoke them  
Let’s fix what’s been broken_

\----

The thing about the suit is that Cisco made it in the fall, and even though he put a cooling unit in it, Barry still feels a little like he is marinating in his own sweat. Mental note to tell Cisco that he has to do--something--about this. Still, even sweaty, Barry has stopped two carjackings, super-sped his arms to put out a small fire, gotten a kitten out of a goddamn tree, and picked up a couple of lemonades in hopes of surprising Iris at her (air conditioned) office.

Now that Patty's left, Barry sees Iris every night. He’s not sure where they’re going but at least there’s some kind of movement. But she’s not at work.

Barry tucks the drinks in a damp paper bag under his arm—sans ice, because it’ll melt— and zips over to her new place. It’s a little one-bedroom on the west side that’s up 5 flights but has huge bay windows that she immediately filled with plants. It feels—well—more like home than just about anywhere other than Joe’s.

He slides his fingers into his boot for the spare key, and then he’s inside, calling her name and pushing his cowl back from his face.

And there she is, hair curling in an indifferent ponytail, arms stretching back, and face turned up to the pressed tin ceiling. The music is so loud she doesn’t hear him come in or set the bag down. With her eyes closed, she can’t see him watch her rise from her chair and sway gently as she dances herself around the table.

Considering how well Joe sings, Iris’s singing voice is genuinely terrible, but it’s never stopped her from belting out songs she loves. Barry, on the other hand, has a really nice singing voice, and he raises it to catch her attention.

She turns toward him, surprised, the hem of her jersey dress swinging around the tops of her thighs. “Bear,” she’s reaching for him but stops just before they make contact. “I finished it,” she yells, before catching herself and turning the music down. 

“That’s so great, Iris.” Barry is a scientist, not a writer, and he’s willing to admit that one of the many reasons he admires Iris is because she can do things he can’t. He’s so proud of her, and he feels a smile splitting his face as he moves toward her too, with the paper bag outstretched. “I picked this up with the heat in mind, not a celebration, but.”

A bright smile and Iris is reaching for the bag and peeking inside. “Lemonade! You know what would make this even better...” She’s already turning toward the cabinets, pulling down glasses and a bottle and Barry is grinning because even though he can’t get drunk he weirdly...loves the taste of tequila and he loves that she knows it. He also loves the way her muscled legs look when she reaches for something on tip-toe.

“Get some basil?” A look, tossed over her shoulder, in the direction of the potted herbs, and he’s thrusting leaves into her hand almost before the sentence is finished.

\-------

Iris makes them fake margaritas. Three ice cubes, a healthy glug of tequila, basil torn into pieces and rolled through her fingertips, and then the whole thing gets topped with lemonade.

When she’s done, she pauses. Iris always feels a very specific warmth stretching across her shoulders when her back is to Barry and she knows he’s watching her. Open mouth to speak, but she stops because she can’t think of what to say exactly.

She turns back toward him, and holds out his glass. He comes close to her, taking it from her, but not moving away. He’s still dressed as The Flash, all red and mussed hair, gazing smilingly down at her — she’s still never not surprised (and secretly turned on) by how she has to look up at him now — and if she moved forward and he moved forward they would pretty much be in each other's’ arms.

She looks up stupidly at him for a moment, before sidling away, overwhelmed. “You’re still in the suit.”

He glances down at himself. “Huh, yeah. Be right back.”

Barry keeps small caches of his things...everywhere, pretty much. A duffel bag at her place, some boxers and a toothbrush at S.T.A.R. Laboratories, a t-shirt and jeans in his locker at work. Perils of being The Flash include never knowing when you need street clothes.

Iris wanders over to the couch to drink her margarita and listen to the water running underneath the music. The fastest man alive still takes inordinately long showers when he’s not in a hurry.

She’s not nervous, not exactly, but they’ve been dancing around this—them—for so long now. Bad timing keeps getting in the way, but her feelings continue to wax for him. Wax. The word’s been stuck in her head ever since she had to look up the actual definition for a story a few weeks ago. When it comes to the moon, to wax means to “have a progressively larger part of its visible surface illuminated, increasing its apparent size.”

That’s also what it means when it comes to her love for him. It’s less that she’s feeling something new and more that every time she sees him, in the reflection of his sweet sunniness, more of her love’s visible surface becomes illuminated. 

Increasing its apparent size.

\-----

Being in Iris’s bathroom is arousing, but so is everything even remotely to do with Iris. Barry considers relieving the sexual tension during his shower, but thinks better of it, turning the water to cold and rinsing the sweat from his skin. Her soap has sea salt crystals in it, and he rubs it over his shoulders, down his arms, torso, legs. It’s cleansing in the literal sense, but it also resets his nerves as it scrapes over his skin.

His drink is waiting for him on the kitchen counter, and he takes it before sitting next to her on the battered leather sofa that came from Joe’s basement. Iris looks sweaty and a bit boneless and she’s really too beautiful to be completely human.

“Better?” He raises the glass to his lips and doesn’t look at her.

“Better.” She doesn’t look at him.

\-----

Barry’s next to her on the couch, hair damp and smelling of her soap and just slightly of clean rain on asphalt.

The lights are low in the apartment, and the view from Iris’s windows is spectacular--Central doesn’t have much of a skyline to speak of (it’s no Starling City, that’s for sure), but the handful of skyscrapers it does have do a nice job of giving them something to look at while she figures out what to say.

But they’re close enough that Iris can see his chest rise and fall and without thinking, she stretches a hand out into the space between them, placing her hand palm-down on the cool leather. Instantly, his hand covers hers, warm and strong, and he’s lacing his fingers through hers.

This is what they do every night that they see each other— and Iris realizes it’s lame but she’s been nervous about what’s next. She knows what she wants to do, and she can guess that Barry also would like to do those things, but they’re stuck in this pattern of holding hands in silence, or in front of the TV, or while going for a walk by the shoreline. Usually they talk--about work, about metas, about her dad’s upcoming birthday, or where they’ll travel if they ever get the time. But tonight there’s something sitting on her chest.

And then she realizes the thing. Barry will never make the first move. He’s been gently pushing her since Eddie died, sweetly and patiently, but he’s not going to push her any further—this one’s on her.

And breaking the seal here shouldn’t be this hard because Iris likes sex. Like, a lot. It’s fun and it feels good, and she’s good at it, and she’s had a decent amount of it, despite not really having many serious relationships. Actually--it was a sticking point with her and Eddie; he was...surprised by how good she was. Okay. How dirty she could be. He never came out and said it, but there were times when she felt his eyes widen with more than just pleasure.

She wants Barry--so badly. He’s warm, and strong, and underneath her sea salt soap, and the electrical sparks, he smells like her best friend: clean boy. He sighs, contented, and it sends shivers down her back.

\----

“So other than your triumphant finish on that story, what else happened today?” Barry turns toward her, feeling--finally--relaxed and happy. He wants her but this being together is enough, and will always be enough if that’s all that she wants.

“I’d rather talk to you about tonight.” And suddenly he has a lapful of Iris. The fabric of her dress is soft, soft, and warm. His hands slide down her lower back to rest just above her ass, soft and round. His hands squeeze before his brain even issues a command.

Their mouths meet. It’s the first real kiss they’ve shared — not counting those midnight moments of mourning. Barry can’t help the embarrassingly needy sound coming from his throat. Her lips are so soft and her tongue is warm, and he runs his over her bottom lip and pulls her close as she moans and opens her mouth. And yeah, he loves the taste of tequila, but he really, really loves it on Iris’s tongue.

“Barry,” it’s a sigh more than a word, and her hands are sliding under his shirt and he jerks, aroused by her fingertips. She smells of tequila and citrus and herbs and a little like the coconut lotion she rubs into her skin compulsively.

Soft chuckle from Iris, and this is absolute torture, her hands dragging over his skin but not yet where he needs it most. She bites on his bottom lip, hard enough to bruise, and his hips move of their own volition, pressing up toward her. She seats herself fully in his lap, rolling her hips over and over until they’re both gasping at the sensation.

And Barry could come just from this, the warm and slippery feel of Iris rubbing herself on his denim-covered dick, and his hands roving under her dress until—fuck it—he’s peeling it off of her, and she’s in a white lacy bra and mismatched striped cotton panties. His thumbs are rubbing over her tits, pushing the soft material down her shoulders, exposing her nipples, slight and taut.

“Bar—” she’s moaning in his ear. Her hips are setting a punishing pace, rocking slickly over his hard cock. “Does that feel good?” 

And then she’s shifting off of his lap, and suddenly she’s between his legs, on her knees. Looking up at him beneath sweeping eyelashes. “Can I?” One hand on his zipper.

He nods, breathlessly. Tries not to think too hard about the fact that the love of his life wants to give him head. And then he’s gone.

\---

The scent of summer storms is stronger here, between his legs, and her nose is full of ozone and electrical sparks. Iris is nervous, her mouth suddenly wet with wanting, and she swallows as she pulls him out of his trousers. 

She smiles a little to herself at the cliché but Barry’s cock is pleasingly sized, and it’s hard and and the tip is leaking already and she wants, she wants him so badly. She pumps, once, twice, while he whimpers his way through it and then she licks delicately at the head.

“Iris—!”

Iris swirls her tongue around the head, lapping a little at the slit, tasting saltiness. In her peripheral vision, she sees his left hand lift, reaching for her face then pulling back before making contact. But she wants his hands on her, so she reaches for him and places his hand at the junction of neck and shoulder. Her eyes meet his, to reassure him.

Barry’s hand tightens on her neck and his fingertips slide into the roots of her hair, and he groans before his eyes roll up to the ceiling; Iris smiles to herself. From her vantage point, she can see his chest flushing red.

She presses soft, sucking kisses from the base of his cock to the tip, taking her time, massaging his balls, and letting the saliva from her mouth coat his shaft. She pulls back, to stroke him fully, root to tip, before bringing her mouth back to his cock. Greedily, she pulls his head into her mouth, taking a little more with each sucking motion.

Slowly, Iris takes him fully into her mouth, and he’s moaning, and tightening his fingers at the base of her skull. This is control, she thinks, smiling a little around his cock. This is power. This is being a woman who knows what she wants, and takes it. She slides her free hand down between her thighs, where she’s swollen and wet and wanting. 

Iris won’t ask Barry to fuck to her tonight, but it will be soon, she suspects.

He’s writhing above her, and she’s sucking hard and stroking him, and his moans are climbing octaves and she’s so turned on, and she pulls at him once, twice, three times and then he’s shouting and coming down her throat.

\---

It isn’t awkward, though maybe it should be, after. Iris is resting her forehead on his knee and his hand is still in her hair, and Barry is panting his way through a remarkable orgasm.

He hears her soft laugh, and wrenches his eyelids open to look at her.

“That was fun.” She’s rising to her knees then pulling herself up onto the worn sofa.

Her bra is somehow around her waist and she’s reaching for him, so he gathers her into his arms, legs swung half over his lap, ends of her ponytail sweeping over his chest. “Iris,” Barry breathes. “Iris West, are you trying to kill me?”

Her smirk is half-hidden as she ducks her head against his chest. “I don’t know what you mean.”

On her breath, he can smell himself, sharp and musky. He drops his face to hers so he can kiss her mouth open. Her tongue laps at his, and the kiss is deep. Barry pushes Iris onto her back, covering her body with his. “How did I get so lucky?”

Iris’s eyes are bright. “I was going to ask the same thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> I like the idea of ambiguous relationship beginnings. More tk?


End file.
